The Hardest Part of Motherhood So Far

Hello, my dear readers, whoever may still be there. It’s been nearly two months since my last check-in. My sweet baby girl is turning the corner on nearly four months now, and we’re infinitely more in love with her today than yesterday. I’ve settled into motherhood and a rough daily routine. Evelyn is the most smiley, happy baby (unless she’s yelling at us because she’s tired, hungry, bored, seated, on her back…the usual). Every day is an adventure, and every day, I greet the sun with joy and excitement for another day to spend with my daughter. I still look down at her in awe, turning to Charles every single day to say some form of the following sentiment: “I can’t believe we made her. I can’t believe she’s ours to keep.”

There are so many posts I’ve thought to write these last several weeks. Half written essays in the folds of my brain that I haven’t been able to tap out due to the fact that a baby is usually asleep or feeding in my arms. Sprawling out on the floor to wiggle a maraca in my girl’s face, curling up to read a book about puppies, wiping drool off every mirror we own…it’s all been preferable to sitting at a computer. But the last few weeks have been very, very hard, and I knew I needed to turn to my safe place that got me through an impossibly hard year last year.

I always knew I wanted to breastfeed. I don’t have anything against bottle-feeding or formula-feeding, but every parent gets to choose how they feed their babies and this is what I had been set on. The first two months were great (once we figured out what on earth we were doing and my wonderful lactation consultant fixed the searing pain of a bad latch). My body was producing milk like a well-oiled machine. Evelyn was growing and hitting all her milestones. And then her two-month appointment happened. Her weight had slowed, and her pediatrician noted she hoped Evelyn had gained just a bit more weight. No big thing, she’s just petite.

“How’s your supply?” her doctor asked me before we left. “Good! At least I think…” After a few questions, we deduced that all was likely well with my milk supply. We were instructed to keep on keeping on and come back at month three for a weight check.

The idea that I was maybe not making enough food for my baby settled into my brain. “Wait…what if something is wrong with my supply?” I constantly pondered. But my girl seemed perfectly content after feeds, so surely, if she was hungry, she’d let me know. And it’s nearly impossible for me to know how much she was actually getting in each feed. There is no level of trust deeper in one’s body than feeding your baby blind and hoping for the best. I would pump milk once a day overnight and would get far more ounces than I needed for a bottle, so I was confident the factory was firing at capacity.

But then I noticed almost overnight that the volume I would pump started to decrease. From 6-7 ounces to 4-5 or less. And to make matters worse, I got a clogged duct. For anyone who has never breastfed, a clogged duct is the equivalent to a kink in a hose. Or perhaps a giant boulder slathered in thick butter that got into said hose and caused a backup. It’s painful, annoying, and can affect how much milk you can get out. Mine cleared and reclogged about three times over the course of a few days. It was so bad that I sobbed during a diaper change because I moved the wrong way and it was like a knife through my boob. Medication was prescribed in case it was mastitis (an infection of breast tissue), but luckily, it never came to that.

From there, what was a fountain of liquid gold turned into a dripping tap. I noticed Evelyn’s feeds got longer, and she was fussier, headbutting me in the boob. I thought she was being difficult, but as it turns out, she was trying to “turn on” my flow however her tiny little baby head and body could. My baby was hungry, and I had no idea. A month went by in a blur of middle of the night wakings, smiles, coos, sunset walks and turning to my stash of frozen milk I had tucked away back in my boobie milk glory days. We started weighing her at home on a baby scale I got for free from a neighbor, and her weight was stagnant.

Long story less long, as Charles always says as a joke when he’s telling an impossibly long story, she gained a little more than half a pound in a month’s time. For reference, a baby her age should be gaining 1-2 pounds every month. Her pediatrician was concerned. Maybe she wasn’t feeding effectively. Maybe I wasn’t making enough milk. Maybe she wasn’t absorbing calories the way she should. I cried on my way out of the doctor’s office that morning. And frankly, I cried more that day…and every day basically since.

Our homework: Supplement our girl with either milk from my dwindling stash or formula. Because, you know, formula is SUPER easy to find these days. That or pump my milk and bottle feed her for a week to track every ounce that went into her little (delicious) body. After a consult with my lactation consultant, we settled on a slightly different plan that involved me doing something called triple feeding: nursing, pumping, then giving the pumped milk (and any additional milk/formula) via a bottle. The whole process takes roughly an hour, leaving me with another hour and a half to play and get baby down for a nap before the cycle starts again.

I lost track of how many times I cried, sobbed, completely melted down that week. It was all too much. I spent my days stressing over food, noticing that very little was coming out when I pumped, and wondering how much she was getting from me. Was she eating enough? Was she gaining enough? Where would we be at the end of the week and what would happen if it wasn’t where the doctor wanted?

Whatever the internet told me to do to increase my milk supply, I did. Power pumping (pumping on and off for an hour straight), pumping extra after feeds, taking lactation herbs, making and eating lactation cookies, feeding baby more often, downing oatmeal and other milk supply-increasing foods. Nothing really made that much of a difference. I quickly ran out of my freezer stash of milk and through the grace of a long-distance friend as well as my sister, both of who mailed me formula from clear across the friggin’ country, we were able to offer our baby more food and make sure she was satisfied.

One night, after knowing she got all the ounces her little body needed, she was super content in the evening when she’s normally quite fussy. After putting her to bed, Charles and I stood in the kitchen, hugged each other, and cried out of relief but also heartache. When we went back for her weight check, she had gained half a pound. In one week.

Feeding our baby girl has been the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. My mind spirals every day with numbers: how many ounces pumped, how many minutes nursed, how many bottles offered, how much extra formula prepared. It consumes me and everything I do. No one can figure out why my milk supply dipped so drastically. I’ve had blood work, checked my thyroid, met with three different international board-certified lactation specialists, rented a hospital-grade pump…like everything else in my body seems to be, it’s a mystery.

I so badly want to exclusively breastfeed, and coming to terms with the fact that I am not able to has been near impossible. I refuse to give up, even when I see no progress. Mentally, I’ve spiraled many times, sobbed and wailed in the dark while I rocked my baby to sleep, been given innumerable pep talks by Charles, friends and loved ones. The easy solution would be to just move on; be grateful for the three months I breastfed my baby, and simplify my life by weaning her off. But I can’t. Not until I’ve exhausted every other option. My next step is to see a breast specialist, get their opinion on what might be happening.

In the meantime, we’ll keep combo feeding her while I hope and pray every day I can go back to 100% nursing her. The most important thing, beyond what I want, is that she’s growing, hitting her developmental marks, happy and healthy. I know that. I do.

As the months go on, I know I’ll look back and be past all of this, in one form or another. But one thing I will be confident in knowing is that I tried my very, very hardest. For my nena. She’s worth it all.

See you soon, FOAS.